


Restraint

by ShiDreamin



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Can be interpreted as platonic or romantic - Freeform, Gen, Male My Unit | Byleth, My Beloved: Dimileth Zine, Pre-Timeskip | Academy Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:00:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23985715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShiDreamin/pseuds/ShiDreamin
Summary: Byleth stands with the Blue Lions. They are not so heavy, not so bright, youths stained in red and purple and green and blue, a constant melancholy that drowns their conversations, their desires. Byleth picks them because he finds them interesting, because he finds them comfortable.He picks them because Dimitri asked him to, in stilted words and stiff shoulders, the words a relief against his form. He picks them because he does not think Dimitri could take anything else.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd & My Unit | Byleth, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/My Unit | Byleth
Comments: 4
Kudos: 45
Collections: Zine Pieces





	Restraint

The leader of the Black Eagles, that proud girl, steps with the grace of a dancer, the dance of a killer. She has seen, and she will see, red and grief and fury, partly because she has grown with it, partly because she cannot live without it. She smiles at Byleth with a genuine light, even as her hands clench into fists, shadows flickering in her eyes.

The Golden Deer boy is light. He is her, though softer, sweeter, a gentleness to his hands stained purple and green with wants. He clings to Byleth as though they are friends from long ago; when Byleth places a hand to his shoulder, he shudders and ducks away, laughing all the while.

Byleth stands with the Blue Lions. They are not so heavy, not so bright, youths stained in red and purple and green and blue, a constant melancholy that drowns their conversations, their desires. Byleth picks them because he finds them interesting, because he finds them comfortable.

He picks them because Dimitri asked him to, in stilted words and stiff shoulders, the words a relief against his form. He picks them because he does not think Dimitri could take anything else.

Byleth chooses Dimitri against the dark, Sothis whispering in his ears.

“I wonder what binds him so? I can’t see anything at all!” It’s a question beyond his ability to answer, and his lack of knowledge only needles at him. Dimitri is kind, poised, truly raised a future king. He is powerful, brute force in his grip, yet, stiff as though it were his first moment with a spear, Dimitri refuses to rush forward to face his teacher, even in mock combat.

“You can’t learn if you don’t take this seriously. Don’t hold back!” Byleth shouts. Dimitri can fight, has fought, will fight, a bloodthirst burning in his veins when he parries with Felix, spars with Dedue. Byleth has seen the thrust of his spear, the slight of his eyes, the barest hint of teeth poking through, vivid light alive in ocean eyes; Dimitri enjoys, no, he craves combat. It excites him, more than any council meeting, any lecture.

Dimitri takes Byleth’s every hit, misses all his own.

“I’m dangerous,” Dimitri swears, strong and silent and cold, so cold, his feet receding when the dark falls and the moon rises, stardust freckling his face. “I’ll hurt you, if I’m not careful.”

“You won’t,” Byleth says. “Again.” They spar, and they spar, day turned to night turned to day, and though Dimitri shows to every practice on time, though his agility increases, his feet ever swifter, the stiff hold on his spear never wavers. The straight edge of his shoulders, the grimace of his lips. Dimitri is there, and not at all.

In the classroom, at the least, Byleth can truly _see_ Dimitri.

The Blue Lions had perhaps the widest age range, and yet they seem to enjoy all the differences between themselves. Byleth can tell, of course, that Dimitri knows a select few more than the rest, and yet, he is quick to speak to Annette with a sparkling demeanor, quicker to flush when Mercedes pokes at his recent training injuries. Felix and Ingrid spare “His Highness” no mercy when participating in peer review. Ashe and Dedue are fast friends, and it is a refreshing sight to see Dimitri glaring at his textbook between them, all three working hard to prepare for the upcoming exam, under the surprising tutelage of Sylvain.

Byleth finds himself surprised at how familiar they become: Felix’s demands to spar, Ingrid’s upset at her training speed. Dedue and Annette’s presence in the kitchen, joined often by Ashe and Mercedes. Sylvain is the hardest to find, and yet not at all, always in revolving range of some attractive female.

It is Dimitri who Byleth sees the least, a flicker of blue behind the classroom door.

“Is it possible to begin a gardening club?” It is a question better suited Manuela, or Seteth, perhaps any member of the teaching faculty that have actually managed additional activities. Instead, Dimitri asks Byleth, hands steady at the edge of the table, gaze above the steaming cup of tea at his front. Byleth pauses, his own hands picking at his cup, aware of the warmth burning against his head. Sothis.

She’s been awfully quiet recently, receding in and out around him as the days go by.

“What brought this on?” The words are carefully picked, cautious. Tea amongst nobles is a shockingly difficult activity, and though Dimitri has never left without gratitude and a promise to return, Byleth has yet to achieve a _perfect_ tea time with his student. Not from lack of hard work, mind. 70% of Byleth’s salary goes towards chamomile.

“I just thought—no, no, never mind. I’m sure you’re busy.” The nervous grimace on Dimitri’s face is somehow accompanied by a splatter of disappointed noises. Byleth twitches, certain that Sothis is taunting him in the background.

“Dimitri, that’s not what I,” Byleth’s words are interrupted by the familiar chiming of the school bell. They’ve gone overtime, accidentally, and Byleth has yet to deliver a joyful enough ceremony worth staying for. Dimitri gives him the regular bow and smile, promising to visit again.

“How charming.”

Byleth manages a roll of his eyes, gazing upward. Sothis grins down, her green curls cascading over her shoulders onto his.

“He has a lot on his plate,” Byleth responds. Sothis laughs, bright, delighted.

“What makes you think I was speaking of him?” With that remark, she is gone, leaving Byleth to sit alone at a table for two, a cup of hot chamomile still clasped in his fist.

Murmurs of a curse plaguing the Blue Lions house reach a high when a mission reaches the church about an uprising from a noble Ashe is particularly familiar with. Lonato, a man with ambitions above his standing. Lonato, a man who Ashe knows particularly well.

Lonato, whose head sits at Ashe’s feet, the bloodied remains of his body a stain upon their uniforms.

“Ashe.” It is Dimitri who speaks, who steadies his spear against the ground as though he is not familiar enough with it to have run through the bodies of two men, as though it were not him who swung where Ashe could not, who dug the head of his weapon into Lonato’s throat and twisted. Byleth slows, their own bloodied arms coming to a halt on the hilt of their sword.

“Ashe.” Ashe doesn’t move, nor yell, nor cry. His bowed head is a remembrance, an apology, a signal of despair. The sound of Dimitri’s metal boots is wet on the muddied ground.

“Ashe.” Byleth watches as Dimitri tugs at his classmate, hauling Ashe to his feet with ease. The strands of their light hair is muddled in the looming fog, their eyes a hallowed moon. What Dimitri has to say to his classmate, Byleth has no part in. He turns to leave.

“Professor.” Dimitri’s voice is a croak against his back. Byleth turns, steps, then walks, then runs, catching the weight of two into his arms.

“Professor,” Dimitri repeats, the dull thud of his spear against the ground another casualty of battle. “I think; I fear my legs may be unsteady. May I request your aid, at least until we arrive to our cavalry?”

“Sure.”

It is the first of a variety of odd requests Byleth will face from Dimitri in the coming weeks. Ashe has become a ghost in the classroom, and with his disappearance comes Dimitri’s reappearance in the classroom at late hours. Apparently, the library has begun to enforce stricter student hours. Dimitri asks Byleth for tea, for snacks, for excuses from attending his other classes so he may stay long hours in a chair, reading and rereading and marking old books. Byleth sees him once or twice with Claude, cheerfully laughing at his collection, only to thread a few ribbons along the most crucial sections. Once, even, Lindhart sits at Dimitri’s side, seemingly dozing off, but with his own tower of texts.

The other professors laugh at Byleth, becoming an errand dog for his own student. Manuela means well, warning him from becoming too attached, while Seteth and Shamir both grimace at the growing stockpile of lost items Byleth has collected for his students. At the least, overlooking the classroom at night, Sothis can whisper soft sayings to his ears.

“It must feel nice,” wistful, sweet, “to have collected yourself a band of ducklings. But can you lead them?”

“Haven’t I?” He whispers. Sothis laughs, her nose twisting for a moment before her hand comes down to pull at Byleth’s cheek.

“Have you?” she hums, light, weak, a shimmering of air twisting with Byleth’s hair. He turns to his side, the shadows shards along Dimitri’s hair, bowed in reverence of his continued reading. “He hasn’t slept properly in weeks.”

Dimitri blinks, slow, unsteady, when Byleth’s hand descends onto his head. His shoulders hunch, and for a single vivid moment Byleth remembers the cold form Dimitri has taken up, eyes steel when they drilled into Lonato, spear no more than an extension of the frozen fury that burned so clearly in every movement. Here, droopy eyes searching Byleth’s face with familiar exhaustion, the thundering image dissipates.

“Dimitri,” Byleth keeps his voice low, barely more than a murmur in the air. It’s late, after all, and the students should have head to bed long ago. “Dimitri. It’s just me.”

“Byleth?” The softening of Dimitri’s shoulders is the precursor to the slow lull of his head, softened blonde locks a tickle against Byleth’s palm. He stills, uncertain, at the sudden display of familiarity.

“Dimitri…?”

His answer is a snore. The echoes of Sothis’ laughter betrays him, and yet, hauling Dimitri’s weight in his arms, Byleth can do little to smother the smile twitching at his lips.

At least, in sleep, Byleth can protect him here.

Life, it turns out, goes on regardless of the death of one’s father, or sibling, or lover. Time is not kind to the cubs Byleth has taken as his own, the recent smears of blood that cling to their shoes, their weapons, their uniforms, a daily remembrance of the faces of people they had once known now dead. Byleth has his own sword now, something that makes a glimmer of light return to Dimitri’s eyes.

It’s what taunts him now, waggling in the air over the fallen form of his student.

“Dimitri,” Byleth reminds, swinging the sword of the creator from side to side, “don’t hold back. Treat this like a real battle.”

“Is my current effort not sufficient?” An edge of frustration creeps into Dimitri’s voice, his eyes narrowed even as he reclaims the practice spear he had chosen. Even meant for academy use, the steel point to it is still capable of serious injuries.

“It’s not a matter of effort. It’s a matter of will.” Jeralt had taught that to Byleth once, years and years ago when he had his own unhealthy habit of breaking things with ease. Now, faced with Dimitri’s gritted teeth, he wonders what his father was possibly seeing in himself. “You must face me like I’m an enemy, Dimitri. You won’t hurt me.”

“You don’t know that!” The shout is sharp, though not unexpected. Dimitri winces, eyes darting across the training ground though it is empty sans them. Byleth had barred anyone from entering for the hour, determined to speak to Dimitri alone in some semblance of daylight.

“I do. I’ve seen you fight to kill, Dimitri.” The flinch at his words makes Byleth waver a moment, but the truth must be said, the seeds firmly planted. “I mean it when I say that it’s alright. Dimitri. Don’t you trust me?”

“I do!” Dimitri insists. He pauses, sighing, scuffing his boots along the dirt. “I cannot extend the same words to myself. That’s all. It’s not—it’s not _your_ fault, professor.”

“There’s no blame to be spread. Dimitri,” Byleth raises his sword again, and in a moment, Dimitri’s legs are spread, his arms firmly grasped onto his spear.

“I trust you.”

They leave the training grounds in reasonable shambles. Dimitri makes a habit of fumbling at least once every other thrust, hesitating on taking the right angle, the right shot, but it’s _progress_.

It ends up being the first cog to many of Byleth’s duties, the second being proper care of the kitchen after a miniature explosion somehow related to “sewer people.” Teaching becomes increasingly more complicated when they introduce the sauna to the faculty, leading Byleth to fish out an incredibly red arguing duo of Manuela and Hanneman from the depths of the steam. Flayn and Annette somehow manage to badger Byleth into visiting the sweets club for a day, only to discover a somewhat reluctant Felix and Lysithea arguing over a slice of cake. The visit reminds Byleth of old paperwork, and then he’s speaking with Seteth, Rhea, dad.

Byleth is the last to sign his own paper request, the words “Gardening Club” scrawled at the top of the page. Their first meeting is scheduled for Monday.

This time, Dimitri smiles at Byleth when the bell rings, feet firmly planted and hands wrapped around his cup of chamomile. They spend an additional twenty minutes speaking of nothing, and when Byleth touches Dimitri’s face, staring at the developing eye bags from his bouts of sleepless nights, Dimitri simply presses his cheek against Byleth’s palm.

“You should sleep more,” Byleth insists. Dimitri laughs.

Perfect tea time.

Byleth still finds Dimitri half-awake during late nights, his candles melted to a hollow disk at his side. He’s getting better; he’s getting worse. With every passing day, it almost feels like the weight sagging at Dimitri’s shoulders seems to tighten, heavier.

“It feels like the more I know, the less helpful I become,” Byleth confesses when he is alone, alone sans the goddess at his side. She snorts.

“Knowing isn’t enough for you? He trusts you with so much already,” Sothis says. At his silence, she chuckles. “Foolish child.”

“What else can I do?” Tired mumblings. Sothis shakes her head.

“Of course there is little left for you to do when you’ve done so much already.” Byleth glances upward, her grin baring down onto him. “He doesn’t want your pity. Your presence by his side. That’s all.”

Sothis is right.

When campus life grows busy as students from other houses begin asking Byleth to sit into his, time outside lectures become increasingly important. Dimitri stays after classes to speak with Byleth, long after hours, Byleth’s blankets pulled over hunched shoulders as they read texts together. They walk to the gardens together, planting tomatoes and eggplants, and Byleth smiles when Dimitri freezes in place at every insect in his dirt, carefully removing them from any plants. All the while, Byleth finds himself in a growing pile of items that _aren’t his_.

The string of strange requests, item trades, lost item returns, become tea time tales between them. Dimitri laughs and Dimitri flushes, and when the bell tolls the hour Byleth finds that neither of them makes a move to leave anymore. When Byleth presents Dimitri a present of new riding boots, Dimitri gapes, his eyes a glorious shimmer as he looks them over. It had cost a hefty salary, but the sight of Dimitri wearing them in the sparring ground two days later is worth every overtime hour.

“Don’t hold back,” Byleth reminds him, knocking their weapons together. Dimitri stills, eyes locked on the head of his spear, before turning to Byleth, something of a grin pulling at his cheeks.

“I won’t.”

Byleth finds that smile worth its weight in gold.

**Author's Note:**

> Izza posting day! Check out [ @MyBeloved ](https://twitter.com/mybeloved/)@MyBeloved on tumblr/twitter for lots of Dimileth content! After shipping out preorders, I believe they may be hosting a leftover sale, so keep your eyes peeled <3
> 
> I had the amazing chance to partner with @Kingfauna on twitter as well! If you purchase the zine, you'll be able to see the wonderful piece they drew in collaboration with this fic!
> 
> If you enjoyed reading my fics, want to yell about found families, or support me, please check out my twitter [ @Shidreamin ](https://twitter.com/shidreamin/)! I’m more active on there, and you’ll be able to see my zine previews before I post them here, as well as some WIP in the future! I've also recently set up a [ Curious Cat ](https://curiouscat.me/shidreamin/) and [ Ko-Fi ](https://ko-fi.com/shidreamin/), if you'd prefer messaging me anonymously. ♥ ♥ ♥


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